


lateral noise

by get_ruined_again



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/get_ruined_again/pseuds/get_ruined_again
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fifteen people turn left, when they should have turned right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the ardat-yakshi

Accidents happen.

She'd cried at first. They took her at a crossroads, a time when  _Mirala_ could have meant anything; she had dreamed vastly, a hundred different people to be and all the years she'd have to know their shoes.

They died gasping with the girl she murdered.

(She didn't mean to. She never did.)

~~_Dear mother,_ ~~

_~~Mother,~~  
_

_Samara,_

she writes.

She's not built for gardening, sewing, brewing; her hands aren't made for marketplace novelties. She paces and screams. She leaves her marks in the monastery stone.

_You did this_ , she writes.

Her sisters thrive. Not happy, but peaceful; content in repetition, in the ditches dug for them. She screams and they wrap her tight, keep her close. She fights and they suffocate. She drifts and they anchor. Their minds can hold hers and she loves them dearly and desperately for it, for the chance to touch without burning.

It's not the same, but it's all she has.

_I am not an accident_ , she writes.

She makes a quiet show of leaving--notes passed under the breakfast table, secrets spoken under blankets with fire in her lungs. She steals food, packs clothes, hides her bags in the ceiling tiles.

But Rila sees the intent and tries to hide her anger with reason, true face burrowed under thoughtful ridges. Falere sees into all Mirala's dark gulches and snuffs her anger with tears. They love her too much to watch her go.

Mirala could never hate them for trying to keep her, and she cannot stand to see them hurt.

_This is not for you,_ she writes.

In the end, she stays.


	2. the assassin

Battle-sleep as anesthetic: he dreams in austenite steel, rifle stock married to his cheek, hunting knives in his boots and his sleeves and his hands _(Amonkira be praised)_. His body drifts and there is no difference. Every world tastes like sick-sweet gun solvent and aluminum grease as he cleans out carbon in the muzzle, copper fouling in the bore, salt buildup on all the springs and pins. Nothing feels real. When his body wakes, his hands do it again.

Repetition. Maintenance. Everything rusts on Kahje.

_(He will be cleaned one day: Kalahira will break him into all his parts, strip him of Kahje-salt and dream film. Until then, he is mechanized and spring-loaded. His soul does not own what his hands do.)_

He prays. Flexes stiffness from his fingers, the rusting in his joints. Memorizes festival spices - roasted meat and mint teas and clouds of temple incense. His prey hangs in the scope, laser point a red jitter on the curve of his skull, unnoticed.

There is a woman who is not sleeping, who brands him with her eyes, who stands between them fiery and gorgeous like Arashu  _(forgive me)_ , but much too late.

Thane does not pull the trigger, but the trigger is pulled.


	3. the mercenary

There’s a gun and a bullet and a traitor, but what really kills Zaeed Massani is epiphany.

There were parts of him that never rang right with this life. Maybe because he’d always wanted to be a general and fell in with pirates instead; traded dreams of glinting medals and worlds conquered for settlement raids and jacking freighters. No one had substance here. Thieves and murderers manned helms like they were tree forts, wielded weapons like little boys with wooden swords and cap guns. Nothing was worth fighting for, worth doing right. Made him sick.  
  
He craved legitimacy; had a vision of virtuous freelancing. Laws for all the lawless sons of bitches.  
  
(Spare children. No civilians, no torture. Don’t steal unless they have it coming. Respect where it’s due. Let them know you’re armed. Let them know you’re good and goddamned angry before you shoot them from behind. All easy stuff, all true and honorable, a code even monsters could follow.)  
  
He threatened with fire and shrapnel and airlock before they listened, but it happened. They saw value in survival and fell in line. With his own two hands and Santiago at his six, he built rosters and ranks and rules, chains of command and protocol at the foundation of something greater than himself. He wrestled order out of tribal deep space chaos.  
  
He felt like he could take on the whole damn galaxy with what might be an army someday, with a little bit of luck. Make some credits. Set things right.  
  
But Santiago at his six only puts the barrel of Jessie to the back of his head and he knows, then. Takes all his blood to know it--blood and grey matter and flecks of skull and all the rage he’s ever had, but there it is.  
  
No one saw his vision but him.  
  
Thieves and murderers with a pedigree, now; lawless sons of bitches with colors to fly, a rallying banner, and stacks of riches that he bled to make. No need for Caesar when the empire has been built.  
  
(It ends facedown in a pool of himself, breathing black and red. True and honorable things do nothing but leak into the foreign soil.)  
  
They come back three days later to throw some quicklime on him, and that is that is that.


	4. the heiress

There is a boy in her garden and he’s cutting up her flowers.  
  
Miranda sees him from her window. She does not care about the plants--she had wanted to prove she could make something grow, and once she had she’d washed her hands and left it to the gardeners--but she cares that he is not doing his job correctly. He is too friendly, too familiar, slope-shouldered and dark with sun. Peasant stock. She can find nothing admirable in his plainness, the way he smiles at her and says his name is Niket.  
  
She keeps talking to him.  
  
Father forbids her to have friends, so they meet in the garden shed, the wine cellar, the boiler room. He is talkative in the worst ways--endless lengths of small dreams and smaller futures. His eyes glaze when she speaks of philosophy, hard sciences, the progress of man. She resents that she has to shrink to fill his world, endures it still.  
  
(She could leave, but her hands ache to remember what it feels like to be a part of something genuine. She can make herself compact, can crush herself to fit those futures if it meant she was no longer owned by her blood.)  
  
Miranda hates the way Niket always smells of rich living earth; the way her skin hums with memory. She hates the way they fit together. His lips are chapped and his fingers are rough and she hates his hesitation, the gentleness he owns to his chattel-roots, damp mouths and sheets of sweat and the way the day's dirt transfers into the crevices of her skin. He murmurs his small dreams into the hollow of her neck, prayers of simple adoration and devotion and all the things she knows nothing about. He leaves her imperfect, and she is scared that she might love him for it.  
  
“Pretty soon now, Mira,” he says into her crown of black curls, and she smiles, small and honest and rare. “Just us. We can go anywhere.”  
  
But when the day comes, she goes to the meeting spot with packed bags and money hoarded for this moment, waits and waits and waits--  
  
Her father rolls up in an Audi, all sleek and menace, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and she knows that it is done.  
  
She does not see Niket again. Like her flowers, he is gone.  
  
“I'm not a monster, Miranda. I gave him a choice,” her father explains, chilly as scalpel steel. He gives her a look that freezes, one that says she should have known better, and she takes it with head bowed and eyes averted because it's true. “Can you guess which one he took?”  
  
It isn't hard.  
  
In the spring, the new gardener tills the bed to make room for ornamental evergreens. She will not be getting her hands dirty this year, or any thereafter.


	5. the l2

After four years of knowing he'd never see her again, Rahna shows up on Kaidan's doorstep, huffing little starling-puffs of cold Vancouver air.

She takes milk and honey in her earl grey tea; she still has that accent, thick and warm and warbling. She's filled out the skeletal ridges that had marked her ribcage since the last time he saw her - not in any lately-blooming way, but eating better, not pushing herself so hard. He's glad.

They sink into chairs by the fire and talk: failed jobs and migraines and hiding the sparks of power, the Brain Camp numbness, about military recruiters, offers of tuition and programs and prestigious postings to turn down again and again. She says she's considered it on her worst days, just anything to ease the electricity thrumming through the whole of her; he knows the feeling, shares it sometimes, but he just can't (or shouldn't, or won't) imagine her on the battlefield. She's made for clever things in the engine room, quick thinking in the CIC - but how many biotics land there, really? Her hands wrap around her mug and she looks at him frail-smiled, and his insides surge to protect her from her smallness, from her future.

(She has changed, but he has not.)

"I found a place for people like us - did you know we're all in communes now? Our leader's sort of like you, Kaidan. He says we shouldn't be scared." Rahna is lost-hatchling tired and a little terrified still, in spite of all the words - he sees it in her beautiful sleek angles, her brittle breakable sparrow-bones - but not of him, not anymore, and that's all he's ever needed. She takes his hand, cups his cheek and he's seventeen again, swallowing down his love.

Once upon a time, he killed for her. Nothing ever really goes away.

"You don't have to join the Alliance. You have choices." He pulls her close, consumes her with a hug, and she does not shake like she did the last time they were together; she breathes against his collarbone, wet and warm and welcome. "Come with me."

He does.


	6. the lost

**From: Solana Vakarian** [#64991433-cipritine]  
 **To: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 _Message Received at 20:08_

Garrus, I can't get through on the comms. Dad's been trying too. If you get this, please get in touch with us. Please.  
  


**From: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 **To: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 _Message Received at 20:32_

I had to turn the news off. Garrus, let us know you're alright. Dad's in a panic, trying to pull favors to get to the Citadel, but the Hierarchy's restricting travel to essential military. Not that it's stopping him. Of course he'd try to fly off into the middle of a warzone.

Answer soon. I'm worried.  
  


**From: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 **To: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 _Message Received at 21:49_

Please don't be dead.  
  


**From: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 **To: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 _Message Sent at 23:17_

I'm fine, Sol. Citadel was in lockdown, comms were jammed, but they're getting it back up and running. Busy right now. C-Sec's coordinating recovery.

Tell Mom and Dad it's a mess here, but I'm alright. Talk to you soon.  
  


**From: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 **To: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 _Message Received at 08:13_

I'm on my way to the hospital to give Mom the news. Nothing serious, don't worry, she's only there for observation. The doctors say it's just the stress.

Dad got a message from Pallin asking if he can come out of retirement for a bit and lend a hand until they get a few more recruits. Just thought you'd appreciate the warning.  
  


**From: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 **To: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 _Message Sent at 12:37_

Thanks for letting me know. I'll call Mom and make sure she's fine when vidcomm traffic eases up. Everything's jammed right now.  
  


**From: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 **To: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 _Message Received at 12:42_

Mom's out, everything's okay. She wants you home.

The reports are saying thousands. Is it true?  
  


**From: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 **To: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 _Message Sent at 12:59_

Yeah. Saren's flagship and a couple hundred geth squeezed in right before they could get the Citadel's arms closed. The AA guns never even went online. It was bad, but it could've been a real massacre if Shepard hadn't managed to bring the ship's shields down and open up the arms. No idea how she managed it.

No idea how she managed to wreck her rover either. That's the more impressive feat if you ask me. I spent two hours helping scrape that thing off the Presidium and she didn't even send a thank-you note.  
  


**From: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 **To: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 _Message Received at 13:21_

Who's Shepard?  
  


**From: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 **To: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 _Message Sent at 19:26_

Spirits. Is it comfortable under that rock, Sol? She's a human Spectre. The only human Spectre. I told you about her a month ago, remember? She leveled some accusations against Saren and Pallin steamrolled some poor bastard in my department into investigating it. Arieto. It was kind of a big deal, all over the news. Didn't you get my message about it?  
  


**From: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 **To: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 _Message Received at 19:30_

You mean that ten page dissertation on C-Sec's incompetence that you poured out when you were drunk? Yeah, Garrus. I got it. Maybe I'm a bad sister, but I don't care about your celebrity crushes.  
  


**From: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 **To: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 _Message Sent at 19:41_

It wasn't ten pages.  
  


**From: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 **To: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 _Message Received at 21:11_

Look, Garrus, I know you're still upset about missing out on that opportunity and how big it would've been for your career. You hate it at C-Sec, I get it. But I'm glad you're there, alright? Spirits know what could've happened to you if you'd just flown off and done your own thing like you've been wanting to since you were fifteen. Dad's proud of you for sticking it out, even if he doesn't say it. Mom is too.  
  


**From: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 **To: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 _Message Sent at 00:52_

Yeah.

I'll talk to you tomorrow. Have to get a chunk of geth flagship out of the courtyard before I can finally get some sleep. Hate it when that happens.

Tell Mom I'll be home to visit when I get some leave. Not sure when that'll be. Lots of paperwork to do and I guess it's up to me. Most of my department's gone.  
  


**From: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 **To: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 _Message Received at 07:02_

Remember, Garrus. Stay focused. You're doing something important. You're helping rebuild. They need you there.  
  


**From: Garrus Vakarian**  [#30882617 ext. 4472-citadel-security]  
 **To: Solana Vakarian**  [#64991433-cipritine]  
 _Message Sent at 20:30_

Solana. I'm not going anywhere.

I promise.  
  


**  
End Log.**


End file.
